


More Than You Could Ever Know

by colonel_bastard



Category: Aquaman (2018)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M, Smooching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 00:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17254058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: Orm unintentionally utters a cliche. Arthur is unexpectedly moved.





	More Than You Could Ever Know

**Author's Note:**

> so it was christmas morning and i heard [this ingrid michaelson cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jw0ZfyWmkD0) of mariah carey's 'all i want for christmas is you' and i started thinking about fishboys and then this happened

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At Atlanna’s insistence, the boys come home for Christmas. 

It’s not that she has any particular affinity for the occasion itself. It’s just that she loves all the traditions and customs that come with it, this quaint little surface holiday that emphasizes the importance of gathering the whole family together. It’s been a long while since Arthur really gave a damn about the thing either way, but he can see that it means a lot to her and that’s all he needs to know. That’s why Christmas Eve finds the King of Atlantis and the Ocean Master in the living room of a certain Maine lighthouse, carols on the stereo and a tree in the corner— a tree decorated by four pairs of hands working in harmony that very afternoon. Yes, even Orm is playing along. Anything for her.

From the kitchen, they can hear their mother singing along with the music as she cleans up after dinner. Of course her sons offered to take care of it for her, but she insisted that they relax and enjoy themselves, it really was no trouble. She sings and washes the dishes while Tom hums along and dries them when she’s done. In the living room, Arthur slouches comfortably on the couch, his ears tuned towards the kitchen but his eyes on his brother. Orm is perched in the window nook that overlooks the ocean, staring out at the dark water. He still tends to get pensive when he’s away from it for too long. 

“Hey,” Arthur says. 

Orm doesn’t stir from the glass. Arthur persists. 

“C’mon.” 

No response. He’ll have to intrigue him. 

“I wanna show you something.” 

That does the trick. At last Orm turns his head, his distant gaze sharpening into focus. 

“What is it?”

Resolved, Arthur hauls himself up from the couch and tosses his head towards the door. 

“It’s a surprise. Let’s go.” 

With a beckoning roll of his shoulder, he turns and takes off, trusting Orm to follow— which he does, without hesitation. They make a brief detour on the way so Arthur can stick his head into the kitchen and tell the folks they’re going for a walk. Then they’re heading out over the front porch and down onto the gravel path that will take them into town. Arthur sets an easy pace and Orm falls into step beside him. There’s no need to talk. They’re happy enough to walk in cozy silence, their breathing matched in rhythm, their steps falling in and out of sync. It’s a bit of a long way, but Arthur knows Orm won’t mind. Not as long as they’re together. Besides, in Arthur’s opinion, it’s well worth the journey. 

And when they reach the outskirts of the suburbs, he knows that Orm would agree.

It’s the lights. The houses are all decked out for the season, the ordinary neighborhoods transformed into a glittering new world, every home and tree delicately framed in radiance. As they move deeper into the luminous warren of houses, Orm’s eyes go wider and wider, his pupils dilated with wonder, a thousand points of light reflected in his fascinated gaze. On impulse Arthur reaches for his hand. Orm doesn’t resist, and their fingers stay entwined as they stroll side by side through the spectacle, their boots crunching in the snow. 

They’re both thinking it. Orm is just the first one to say it out loud, as they drift past a residence where the lights gleam in a particular combination of purple and blue. 

“In a way,” Orm says, a hint of begrudging admiration in his tone. “It’s not unlike home.” 

“Yeah,” Arthur gives him a sidelong smile. “I thought you might like it.”

In the corner of his eye he admires his brother’s sharp profile, the proud angles softened by the dreamy quality of the light. For the first time since they came out of the water that morning, Orm is at peace, having reached at last his customary truce with the hours spent on the land. He always gets there eventually. Arthur likes to think that it gets faster with every visit; they just have to keep practicing. And Arthur will keep helping in every way he can— including spontaneous walks to look at the Christmas lights, a gentle reminder that the gulf between their worlds is not nearly as vast as it may sometimes seem. 

Arthur squeezes his brother’s hand. Orm squeezes back. It’s a reminder, too, that neither of them has to walk alone. Not anymore. 

Unhurried, they amble on past rows of twinkling candy canes, front doors bearing wreaths and roofs trimmed with illuminated icicles. Orm’s gaze darts over every display, keen to study all the lovely details, equal parts surprised and impressed that the surface dwellers could collaborate on something so splendid. After a while, however, an expression of disappointment begins to form. The humans have frustrated him again. 

“Such a waste,” he frowns. “To be capable of such craft and yet choose to spend the greater part of their lives in darkness. Why not always keep it so?”

“I dunno,” Arthur shrugs, idly surveying the view. “I guess if they kept the lights up all the time, they wouldn’t be special anymore.” He nudges Orm with his elbow. “It’s, uh, kinda supposed to be special.” 

“Ah, yes.” Orm huffs under his breath. “For Christmas.” 

He says it with the same mild distaste that he reserves for most things related to the surface world. However, in all fairness, _mild distaste_ is leagues away from _total disgust_. They’re making progress. Orm takes it like medicine now, something unpleasant but necessary, trusting in some way that the application is for his own good. Arthur could see it on his face all afternoon, his brow furrowed with effort as he took ornament after ornament from their tissue paper nests, pausing to examine each one before placing it carefully among the branches. 

He’s trying. If for nothing else, Arthur would respect him for that. 

“So,” he says, his tone cajoling. “You gotta admit, as far as human holidays go, Christmas is a pretty good one. There’s some good shit that comes with it.”

“Oh, no doubt.” Orm tugs his hand out of Arthur’s grip so he can make a show of counting on his fingers. “First the baubles on the tree, then the songs both religious and secular in nature, the biscuits in the likeness of holiday iconography—”

“Cookies,” Arthur interjects. “They were cookies.” 

Orm persists. “The knitted garb—”

“Sweater. Looks good on you, by the way.” 

“—the traditional repast of fowl—”

“Mom worked really hard on that turkey.”

“—the _nog_ —”

“Shut up, you loved the nog.”

“And now,” Orm gestures grandly around them. “The residential adornment of lights.” 

At his prompting, Arthur turns in a lazy circle, his hands in his pockets, drinking it all in. The lights truly are a splendid sight, the ordinary world made rare and wondrous, just for tonight. The effect is only heightened by the lateness of the hour, the pair of them wandering alone among the silent constellations. The chilly air hums with promise. Arthur wouldn’t rather be here with anyone else. He looks over at Orm with raised eyebrows.

“Dude, you’re forgetting the best part.” At Orm’s inquisitive glance, he makes a _duh_ gesture. “The _presents_.” 

“But of course,” Orm nods in acknowledgment. “And what, may I ask, are the customary gifts for this occasion?”

“Uh…” Arthur rubs at the back of his neck. “I guess there’s no real... custom?” His hand comes down in a loose, all-encompassing wave. “You pretty much just ask for whatever you want.” He gives Orm a crooked smirk. “So, what do you want for Christmas, little brother?” 

Orm considers. “Whatever I want?”

Arthur affirms. “Whatever you want.”

He knows that Orm will either fire off a quick, snarky retort, or else take the question in total seriousness. And when the jab doesn’t come — _May I ask on behalf of another? Because I would like you to be granted a moderate portion of common sense._ — then that means the reply is going to be completely honest. Orm really is thinking about what he wants. _Good_. That’s what Arthur was hoping for. He wants to know what he can do, having already set his mind to acquire whatever it is that Orm might ask for—a killer new trident, that audience with the U.N. he’s been hungry about, the immediate and nonnegotiable closure of every single SeaWorld— shit, that Bruce Wayne connection’s gotta be good for _something_ —

The corner of Orm’s mouth quirks towards a smile. Decision made, he raises his head and meets his brother’s gaze with his own.

“It’s you, Arthur.” 

Arthur blinks. That is… not the reply he expected. Still smiling, Orm gives a decisive nod and looks off into the field of lights that surround them, satisfied with his answer.

“Yes,” he says serenely. “All I want for Christmas is you.” 

He says it without a trace of guile or awareness, completely oblivious to the Mariah Carey song that just exploded into Arthur’s brain at top volume. It’s funny, but Arthur has heard that exact same phrase so many hundreds of times — in songs, in movies, in Very Special Christmas Episodes — and yet Orm has almost certainly never heard it before in his life, conjuring it instead from a place of simple, genuine sincerity. He’s not saying it to be funny or clever. He’s saying it, the big softie, because he actually means it. 

_All I want for Christmas is you._

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Arthur huffs, kind of amazed that he’s having an emotional breakthrough while a Mariah Carey song plays in his head. “C’mere.” 

Orm turns as Arthur reaches out to catch him by the nape of the neck, steering him into a fierce, possessive kiss that brings the whole night to a breathless standstill. Snowflakes hang in the air while Orm clutches at the lapels of Arthur’s jacket, his body arching reflexively up onto his toes, trying to push against the nonexistent water so he can rise into Arthur’s arms. Arthur just winds those arms around him, pulling him close and keeping him there. They have the street to themselves, all hushed and haloed. Somewhere close by Arthur can smell a woodfire burning in a fireplace. Somewhere farther away — but never too far — he can smell the sea.

The night is quiet enough to hear the snow groaning under their boots, their weight shifting in tandem as the kiss deepens, slow, sweet. Orm hums his encouragement, tugging lazily on Arthur’s jacket, his arms pinned between them in the cocoon of the embrace. Man, he would absolutely _hate_ that fucking song. Obviously Arthur will have to spring it on him when he least expects it. RIght at this moment, however, he wouldn’t ruin the mood for anything— not when Orm rocks his hips against him like that, deliberate, hungry. 

“Oh, wow,” Arthur breaks the kiss with an amused chuckle. “You really _do_ know what you want, huh?”

“I do,” Orm pants, craning forward for more. “I want you. I want— Arthur, please—”

Impatient, he yanks on Arthur’s lapels so that the jacket collar catches the back of his neck, pulling him down to meet Orm’s eager mouth with his own. Arthur is all too happy to give him exactly what he asks for, his hand creeping up to gather a fistful of hair at Orm’s crown and twist, just hard enough to elicit a moan and an exquisite, instinctive arch of Orm’s back. Then Orm’s wriggling his arms free, snaking them up to slip around Arthur’s neck, both hands burying themselves in the dark tangle of his hair. 

He’s so incredibly, deliciously riled up. Arthur can’t resist the chance to torment him.

Firm and decisive, he breaks off the kiss. He has to use his grip in Orm’s hair to hold him back as he tries to nip after his brother’s retreating mouth, whining in helpless frustration. 

“Y’know,” Arthur says, his tone stern. “ _Traditionally_ speaking, you’re supposed to wait until Christmas Day to open your gifts.”

The reaction is priceless, Orm’s eyes flaring wide with horrified disbelief before narrowing almost instantly in icy defiance.

“I will _not_ ,” he breathes, his voice hilariously, endearingly dire.

Arthur can’t even begin to keep a straight face. He cracks up laughing while Orm bristles in confusion, only to soften with relief when Arthur swoops down and covers his mouth in a reassuring kiss. Unfortunately the swoop is a little too vigorous, their balance tipping just enough that the snow shifts and sends them stumbling. They stagger together, laughing into each other’s mouths as they try not to break the kiss, their boots scrambling for purchase before they finally skid to a halt in the middle of the empty street.

Hands clapped on Arthur’s shoulders for support, Orm looks up at him with a flustered grin, giddy and breathless from the close call. The sight is enough to wrench Arthur’s heart like a hunger pang. 

_God, he looks so young._

In another life they would have been young together. There would have been snow forts, and sledding, and snowball fights. When they went out, Atlanna would have made sure they stayed bundled up, if only for appearance’s sake. When they came home Tom would have made them both his signature hot chocolate. And every Christmas, without fail, they would have decorated the tree as a family. 

_But hey—_

_At least they decorated it this year. That’s a start._

Arthur takes his brother’s face in his hands. That radiant smile is so warm under his palms, Orm gazing at him with adoration in his eyes. They’re here, now. And they have many, many more winters to come. That’s a promise, one that Arthur asserts by leaning in to press their foreheads together, Orm tightening his grip on Arthur’s shoulders so he can lean back into it. Arthur curls a hand around the nape of Orm’s neck, keeping him close. 

“Love you, little brother,” he murmurs. “You’re all I want, too.” 

Orm nuzzles against him in fierce devotion. 

“I’m yours, Arthur. Always.”

They linger like that in quiet agreement, brows pressed together, their mouths near enough to share the same fogged breath. Talk about a Christmas miracle. Somehow Arthur has gone from being a loner his whole goddamn life to being one of those dumb saps who actually believes in soulmates. Kind of hard not to, really, with the proof right here in his arms. And yeah, that’s definitely not close enough. They can get _way_ closer than that. By way of invitation, Arthur tilts his head to brush a kiss over Orm’s lips. 

“C’mon,” he rumbles. “Time to unwrap your present.” He draws back with a wink, tossing his head towards home. “Let’s go.” 

He doesn’t try to hide the anticipatory bounce in his step as he pulls them both down the street— a bounce that stumbles to a confused halt when his brother fails to follow. Arthur looks back to find Orm rooted in the snow, his expression smug, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“But Arthur,” he scolds. “I thought you said it was traditional to _wait_.”

The only surprise is that Arthur didn’t see that coming. He shakes his head with a disbelieving groan. 

“Ohhhhhh, don’t you dare.”

“Was it not you who advised me to embrace this holiday and its customs?” Orm simpers while Arthur advances. “Would it not be an act of disrespect to break with them now?”

He waits too long to begin his retreat, his unpracticed feet picking awkwardly backwards as Arthur bears down on him, arms spread wide for the tackle.

“I’ll show you an act of disrespect!”

They collide in a clumsy scuffle, Arthur trying to bring Orm down to the ground and Orm doing everything he can to avoid it, bracing himself on Arthur’s shoulders and practically climbing him, both of them laughing their damn heads off. Finally Arthur manages to get a good grip on Orm’s waist, yanking him into a half-turn that ends with Orm’s back driven back against Arthur’s chest, nowhere to run and nothing to grab for support. The idea was just to loosen his grasp so that he could get properly tossed into a snowdrift— but as soon as Arthur’s holding him like that, he can’t bear to let him go. He hugs Orm against him instead, his chin settled on his brother’s shoulder, sharing the same view of the lights that they came here to witness. Orm rubs his cheek against Arthur’s, his voice soft.

“It’s beautiful, Arthur. Thank you.” 

A dozen different replies get all bottled up in Arthur’s throat until he can’t get anything out. He wants to say, _No, **you’re** beautiful_. He wants to say, _No, thank **you** — for being here, for trying, for staying with me._ He wants to say, _No, really, I think you might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen and I still can't believe that you look at me the way you do._

But he doesn’t get a chance to say any of that, because Orm takes him by the hand and draws him gently in the direction of the lighthouse. 

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go home.” 

“Yeah,” Arthur exhales. “Home.”

And they go together, hands clasped, leaving a trail of light in their wake. 

 

 

_____________end.


End file.
